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Am I dead? Did Phil finally kill me? If so, why does it smell so dang good here? Do they have bakeries in the afterlife?I feel like that’s probably a thing. I mean, you go through this miserable life and then when you die your reward is delicious, warm pastries? Honestly, it might be a fair trade.
I’m not dead though. My head is throbbing in time with my heartbeat, my mouth is dry, and my stomach is dangerously close to emptying its meager contents all over my… wait. Where am I? My bed is definitely not this comfy. I feel like I’m lying on a cloud. I peek my eyes open and immediately slam them shut again and groan.
Why is it so freaking bright? I definitely don’t get this much light in the basement at Phil’s. Which brings me back to my original question. Where am I?
Taking a deep, steadying breath, I try to figure out the last thing I remember, and suddenly, it hits me.
“Honey, I’m hooome! Do you feel like a woman yet?”
Phil’s voice grates against my eardrums like nails on a chalkboard. I’ve been simultaneously dreading and anticipating this day for seven years. Since that first day I was left alone with him as my only company, I’ve been counting down the days to my 18th birthday. Now, 2,557 days later, I’m ready to escape.
Hearing footsteps on the stairs leading to my basement room, I quickly hide the overfull backpack I have ready for tonight. Unfortunately, I use the term “room” loosely, since it’s just a mattress on the floor and a clothesline with the few items of clothing I own.
The door to the basement is locked from the outside, as always, and Phil’s voice drifts through, muffled by the steel reinforced wood. “I brought you some dinner for your birthday. Figured we should celebrate, with it being such a big deal n’ all.” He sounds… nice, and it immediately puts me on high alert.
Finally unlocking and opening the heavy door, he walks in with a bag of food from my favorite taco truck across town. Normally I would never trust food from him, but it’s been days since I last ate and I’m so hungry I’m willing to deal with whatever the catch is for this meal.
My eyes are wide as I take in Phil’s cleaned-up appearance. The last several years have not been kind to the middle-aged man. His usual look of choice is a dirty white undershirt, sagging sweatpants, and being many days un-showered, unshaved and half drunk. Today, though, he looks freshly showered and shave. He’s wearing a hole-free pair of jeans that are just a touch too big on his stout frame, and a cleaner than usual black tee.
“You… you brought me dinner?” I stammer out, looking from his face to the bag and back again.
“Course I did, you ungrateful little bitch. What? Do I not get a hug? Or even a ‘Thank you, Daddy Phil?’” He sneers down at me from where he still stands on the bottom step. He stalks forward and, stopping mere inches from where I sit on the floor next to my small collection of books, slaps me across the face hard enough to make my ears ring. “You’re going to learn one way or another to be grateful for the things I do for you. I didn’t put up with your bratty ass for so many years just for you to turn into an uppity bitch who thinks she’s too good for me and this house. Got it?” he hisses at me, so close I can feel drops of spit hitting my face.
His breath forces me to swallow back a gag, whimpering out, “Yes Phil, I’m sorry, sir. It won’t happen again. Thank you so much for my birthday dinner.” My face is burning from the slap, and my lip stings, but I know better than to cry. He gets off on the tears.
Running his fingers over my cheek where I’m sure his handprint sits; he lowers his voice to a murmur he probably thinks is alluring and takes a deep inhale of my newly presented Omega scent. “Aww sweet pea, you know I love it when you obey me. Now be a good girl and eat your dinner so we can get started on all the birthday fun.” He smirks lasciviously at me before tossing the food down, walking out, and relocking the door.
It’s less than fifteen minutes later when I’ve finished my food that I notice something isn’t right. My scent is stronger, my body hot and achy, and my head feels like it’s stuffed full of cotton. I look down at the food with horror, suddenly understanding why he brought me food so willingly, rather than our usual battle.
I’ve been drugged.
Taking a steadying breath, I give myself a quiet pep talk. “Alright, B, you’ve got this. You were already going to escape tonight. This just moves up your timeline a bit. You have to get out before whatever he put in the food takes full effect.”
I’m sure I sound crazy, but when you only have yourself to talk to for your formative years, you learn to take comfort where you can get it. Talking myself through things brings me comfort in scary situations, and I’m not ashamed of that.
I quickly take inventory of the small room before grabbing the hand trowel I stole out of the shed last month and quietly moving my books to the floor directly under the window. I’m only going to have one shot at this, and it needs to be now. I can hear the TV blaring upstairs and before I have a chance to chicken out, I slam the trowel into the small window near the ceiling of the basement, shattering it. I thank every God I can name that Phil hasn’t put bars on this window yet.
I stop, listening for footsteps on the stairs. When I don’t hear any, I toss my backpack out the window onto the damp grass before using the trowel to knock out the remaining glass.
Just as I’m attempting to lift myself up and out of the window, I hear the TV shut off upstairs, and know I’m out of time. My belt loop gets caught on a stubborn shard of glass and because my limbs are weak and clumsy from whatever drug is coursing through my veins, I can’t get it free. When I’m ready to give up and drop back down, I see a man approaching from the side of the main house. At least, I think it’s one man. There are currently two of him walking towards me, but I’m assuming it’s double vision from how dizzy I am.
Reaching my arms out as far as I can, I frantically whisper to the man, “Please. Please help me. Get me out of here. I can’t get my belt loop unstuck from the glass. I’m begging you. Please help me!”
Either I was wrong in my original assumption that I was seeing double, or there’s a glitch in the matrix, because one of the men immediately runs to my side while the first man stands there looking stunned. The wide-eyed man finally snaps out of his stupor just as I hear the locks being undone on the basement door. The first man pulls me out before passing me to who I assume is his brother, just as I hear the door slamming open behind me.
“He drugged me. We have to get out of here, please.” I can hear myself slurring the words before my whole world goes black.
* * *
After recovering that fun little memory, I have thewho, so now I just need thewhere. Knowing I need to figure out where I am and where my backpack is, I open my eyes a fraction to try to let them adjust to the sunlight streaming in through what looks like a sliding glass door. I can see a pool outside the doors, which definitely explains why everything is so freaking bright and sparkly. Normally I’d love a view like this, but right now it makes me want to crawl under the bed with this wildly overstuffed comforter and not come out until the sun goes down.
A throat clears, making me flip over so fast I fall off the bed. “Owwww,” I whine as the room spins wildly around me.
“Shit, sorry! Sorry, sorry, sorry. I didn’t know how else to get your attention. We’ve been waiting for you to wake up. It’s been so long. I was worried we would have to take you to a hospital.” The masculine voice comes from directly in front of me, and I slowly lift my head, hoping to get some answers.
Dizziness receding, my eyes focus and land on one of the men from last night. I know I saw him already, but between the drugs and the darkness, I didn’t get a good look. Only now, I’m wishing I had. This man isbeautiful. He’s tall, easily over six feet, forcing me to crane my neck uncomfortably far back to take in all of him. He’s built like a swimmer, with big broad shoulders tapering into a trim waist and lean, tan legs, visible because of his athletic shorts that end above his knees. He has blonde hair that looks like the sun’s bleached it styled neatly, honey-colored eyes, and a friendly smile showing straight white teeth give him a wholesome, boy next door vibe.
Keeping his distance, he crouches down in front of me on the floor, holding his hands out to show he means no harm. The weird thing is, I’m not scared. He, or his brother, pulled me out of that hell and clearly kept me safe while I was unconscious. I’m still in my clothes I was wearing, there are bandages on my hand and hip, and the room smells like a freaking bakery.
